The Love that never Died
by meggleicious
Summary: What really transpired after the Shadowmourne questline? Jaina couldn't bear the thought of her once epic love abandoned on top of his freezing Citadel. His body slowly stiffening, freezing. All he had done in his young life, all whom he had saved; it mattered not. He was alone. No matter what he had done, he did not deserve to be alone. Jaina ventures to the top of the tower.


Arthas & Jaina

It was with dread that I watched the elf approach; she was quite beautiful – it was easy to tell even under all of the filth – with long, shimmering gold hair that stood out in sharp contrast with her dark, bloodied armor. Her surviving companions were equally striking, and equally filthy; I didn't stare too long at the dark stains on the armor and the implications, though my feeling of terror intensified nonetheless. A cold pit formed deep in my belly, making me feel frozen and nauseous, as I watched her approach my companion beside me, Muradin Bronzebeard. He seemed to be caught in the same, horrified trance as I was, his small eyes transfixed. She leaned down, and I found myself holding my breath as she murmured something to the dwarf, smoothly passing something to him and gracefully straightening. I pulled my cloak tighter around myself; Icecrown was cold. Very cold. But tonight, it was not the temperature that was freezing me solid.

My heart further sank when Muradin's lined face, half-obscured by his elaborate helm, crumpled. I watch him silently as he brushes away the tears with one of his thick hands, before saying something throatily to the elf –Ysabeau, I think her name was. Her cold, angular face softened slightly at the response, though she glanced back at her exhausted companions, exasperated. Ysabeau's green eyes then turn to me, as if in slow motion; her hand disappears beneath her tattered cloak momentarily, withdrawing something gold from its depths. I don't look. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Muradin take one look at the object, and his wet blue eyes turn pitying as they fasten on me. The elf is now directly in front of me, and with great reluctance I raise my head to stare directly into her eyes. Her stare is unwavering, and she proffers the object to me without breaking it; my hand opens reflexively to catch it as it tumbles from her grasp.

"The Lich King is dead," Ysabeau says gently to me – well, as gently as a warrior of her caliber can. I see sympathy flare briefly in her cool green eyes, but it does nothing to help stay the wave of agony and denial that wash through me at the words. The object is cold in my hands.

"Thank you, heroes," I manage to get out, my voice nearly cracking at the last word, before my eyes finally find the object in my shaking hands.

The object was a locket of gold, the fine chain encrusted with ice. The engraved initials – J.A – were nearly illegible. I mutter a quick, choked incantation under my breath, and the ice siphons away. Trying to control my trembling fingers, I fumble with the latch on my locket, but eventually it snaps open, revealing a picture of a blonde woman and a blonde young man, embracing one another. Grinning. Hopelessly and happily in love.

 _Arthas_. Lovingly, I touch his captured, unlined face with my forefinger, almost able to feel his skin as it had felt back then. His face blurs, and one of my unshed tears escape unbidden and tumble down to splash all over my poor prince's face.

 _He…kept it._ I make a strangled noise from deep within my throat, trying to stem my myriad of emotions. _I…knew there was something, some part of him still alive in there. Alive, and fighting for his freedom._ I squeeze my eyes shut, curling the locket into my fist, and taking a deep breath.

When I am under control again, Ysabeau's angular features were twisted down with sympathy, watching me, and I realize I had spoken aloud. I clear my throat awkwardly.

"May he finally find the rest he deserves," I add on hastily, miserably.

This was a good thing, I remind myself harshly in my mind, the reason we came to the Citadel. Our champions had taken down the dreaded Lich King, terror of the land, and we were victorious.

The elf was still waiting expectantly, and I clear my throat again before withdrawing a small satchel of gold, handing it to her. Making a split-second decision, I murmur a second incantation, and add the newly formed duplicate of my locket to her reward. She smiles at me coolly, before moving past me to speak with Sylvanas Windrunner.

"At last," she breathes in her cold, hoarse voice, and I tune her out. The locket is cold between my warm palms, hidden from sight.

 _He'd kept it._

My heart beat sluggishly through the torn-open, bleeding hole that it had become, and I slip the locket into the hidden pocket inside the folds of my purple robes. I wasn't quite ready to give that up yet.

 _Oh, Arthas._

My face hurt from my grin as I slowly and methodically braided the golden, silky strands in front of me, soft against my fingers. Arthas Menethil, Prince of Lordaeron, sat patiently in front of me, his overly-long strands of blonde brushing the top of his blue cloak.

"Jaina-" He tries, but I cut him off.

"Keep playing with your grass," I say sternly, and he subsides into silence, though I can feel his grin. Obediently, he picks up his clumsily knotted strands of grass between his long, pale fingers, and resumes his botched attempts to braid. I finish my third braid in his long hair, tucking it back into place, and select three more targets for my hands.

We sit outside his castle, the remains of our lunch scattered about us, kept dry by the blanket we sat on. We had pushed away the silverware and plates in favor of teaching Arthas how to braid hair – well at least, I wanted to do it, and he grudgingly allowed it. The sun washed over us gently, though we were spared from its heat by the overhanging willow, and the coolness of the pond to our left.

"You're going to be the prettiest prince in all of Lordaeron," I murmur, and he snorts, leaning back and cracking his knuckles.

"Just what I wanted. Though, technically, I would still be the ugliest prince in all of Lordaeron, too. Could you possibly –"

"Stop moving your head!"

"Sorry," he mumbles bashfully, turning his head back around from where he'd tried to look at me with the sky-blue eyes of his. He picks his grass back up, beginning to try to unwind the tangles. "But, anyway, could you possibly pass me the rest of that potato salad next to you? Surely you can't let your mannequins starve."

"I only care about mannequins that _don't move their heads,_ " I snarl, and he turns his head back around once more, grinning from ear-to-ear.

"Sorry!" He says, holding his hands up in a supplicating manner. "I need practice, I suppose."

"There," I say, patting the final braids against his hair. I bite my lip to keep from laughing as he turns around, looking at me with that lost-puppy-innocent expression, and his newly formed floppy braids. His eyes are captivating; they were blue, but a different blue from every angle, almost like the sea. He blinks them at me now, reaching up to pat his head. I watch his expression go from slightly amused to fully amused, his soft lips curling upward and his eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hairline.

"I can feel how pretty I look," he says seriously, reaching forward and nearly brushing my leg as he reaches for the potato salad besides me; I am hyperaware of the almost-contact, but pretend to ignore it; it doesn't fool him however, and he sets aside his potato salad to pull me into his lap, his arms going around my waist and clasping in front of me. He rests his chin gently against the top of my head, pressing a kiss to my crown. "But not nearly as beautiful as you. Whenever the sun comes out, it makes your eyes positively sparkle."

"If you're trying to woo me, don't think it will be that easy," I warn him teasingly, though I am glowing inside. I am right where I always wanted to be, here, tucked against Arthas, having a relaxed conversation by the fading light of the sun above us.

"I wouldn't think of it, madam," Arthas gasps in offense, unlinking his fingers from my belly to tickle my sides. I flinch involuntarily, slapping at his hands. He humors me, once more weaving his fingers together; I entangle mine with his, and he lets out a content sigh.

The heaviness suddenly settles on my shoulders again, and I know what is coming next.

"Jaina," he sighs, tightening his arms around me.

"Please don't go, or let me come with you," I reply, my body tensing up in response. His hands move to my shoulders, trying to rub the sudden stiffness out of them. I am gripped with a strange, irrational fear that something terrible was going to happen, and I would do everything I could not to let him out of my sight.

"I don't want you getting hurt. You're powerful, but you're inexperienced. One or both of us would die if you came," he murmurs into my hair, and my eyes water. "You would take on an enemy too advanced for you, or I would be a fool and kill myself trying to protect you."

I blink back my sudden tears, and reach up to unhook my gold locket from around my neck. I tuck it between his fingers, letting them linger.

"Don't take it off. It's for luck. Promise me," I choke out sternly, my heart thudding.

Immediately, he releases his grip on me to reach up and clasps the locket around his neck, fastening it with a click. His arms slide back around me, a small, sad smile on his face.

"For luck," he repeats quietly, like a vow. "For you, Jaina, I will never take it off. I love you."

Muradin's hand on my arm draws me back from my silent reverie, my quiet mourning. With difficulty, I look down into his wet, crinkly eyes, and offer him a small smile.

"Are ye okay, lassie?" He asks me in concern, his voice still tick with unshed tears. "The chopper's gonna be here in a few to take us back. You ready to go?" He absentmindedly scratched at his thick red beard.

"I'll be fine, my friend," I choke out, but I cough and my voice is steadier when I continue. The locket felt like it was burning a hole through my dress. "I…think I need a few minutes with him. Alone. To say…to say goodbye."

Muradin nods sadly, trudging off with one last comforting pat on the arm. Ysabeau the elf appears in front of me then, her head cocked to one side.

"I didn't know Arthas other than as a monster who slaughtered people for kicks," she says to me quietly, "and I know you and I are, normally, sworn enemies. However…I am sorry for your loss."

I nod once in gratitude, unable to bring myself to speak, though I study her angular, foreign face carefully. She seems to understand, and whistles between her teeth. Her companions seem to materialize from nowhere, and, saluting me, she and her friends trudge wearily onto the boat. The Citadel was now devoid of every living thing, save myself. I wave at the boat as it flies off, and then it is silent. I can hear every breath I make, the blood pulsing sluggishly through my veins. It was all so incredibly vast, this palace of ice and isolation – its cold, gleaming walls, the icicles spiraling down from the ceiling, and loneliness that emanated from every corner of the room.

 _A reflection of what Arthas must have feeling on the inside_ , came the miserable voice from inside my head, and I quickly shut the thought down. Reaching down into my robe, I withdraw the locket with my numb hands, and stare down at the picture inside of it; Arthas is radiant in his happiness, his soft, entrancing blue eyes practically glowing as he gazed down at my younger self. This was so long ago. I grind my teeth together in frustration as my vision begins to blur, and I let out a strange half choking, sobbing nose. Arthas had been such a young, sweet boy, always eager to give to others. He was steadfast, loyal – so kind. Anyone in need. I'd often teased him of having a hero complex. And…he's dead. Despite what he'd done in his short, meaningful life, he dies alone. Alone, and hated. Left without a backward glance. The thought of his prone, cold body lying on the top of this freezing, awful citadel makes me nauseous; despite what he'd become, everything that he'd done, he didn't deserve this. After one last long, blurry look, I pocket the locket once more, and slowly turn in the direction of the sweeping, icy staircase. Propelling myself forward takes a great dose of willpower, for my body is dragging me backward out the door, to the safety of the outside world. Not further into…his. His final resting place.

I wipe at my wet eyes, and move. Prince Arthas Menethil deserved more than this. He hadn't always been the Lich King. Almost as if in a trance, I climb the stairs and emerge into the grand hall; thousands of skeletons litter the ground, the risen dead. They formed a loose ring around a monstrous creation of bone and Scourge magic; it was almost shocking how much Ysabeau and her companions had accomplished against so many undead. I hesitantly approach the prone skeleton, looking at the gruesome contortion of Lord Marrowgar, Arthas's 'trusted' lieutenant. The body had been picked clean of loot, including Marrowgar's great flaming axe; I suspected it was the work of Ysabeau. I move on, careful not to break any of the bones. I don't look down at Lady Deathwhisper's corpse as I numbly trudge by the female lich to get to the levitating platform, though I see her eerie ethereal robes still fluttering around her limp form; she had been the supreme leader of the Cult of the Damned, Arthas's human worshipers. They had caused us quite a stir, and I had been glad to see her go.

The platform whisks me with incredible speed to the next floor of this citadel, rattling slightly and showering little shards of ice in a circle as it ascends. The next corpse I pass by, I kneel to close his eyes; Deathbringer Saurfang, the noble son of High Overlord Saurfang of the Horde. My heart pulls a little, remembering how fearless the orc was as he charged Arthas alone. In return, his soul was stolen, and he was twisted into a minion of evil, only to be cut down by his father. I exhale through my nostrils, wiping away the lone tear that rolled down my cheek. So much needless death.

I pass by the next two rooms in the vast corridor without a second thought; the abominations that had been created in there by the vile Professor Putricide – Arthas's chief 'mechanic' – were too awful for words. I am almost numb to the death around me as I pass through the final entryway, the ground littered with the corpses of the strange blue Viking people, their blood staining the hem of my robes. I lift the dress, stepping gingerly around the bodies, and stop at the large, doorless hole in the wall. I was back outside, on another giant platform. The cold, snowy wind nips at my cheeks and tangles my hair, though the shadow cast by the motionless form of the giant, once-noble undead bone dragon Syndragosa did nothing to help with the cold. Arthas should have left her alone, she had deserved rest. And now she had it.

I face the swirling blue portal hidden away against the wall, in easy reach in case any of his lieutenants needed him immediately. I suppose that Ysabeau and her friends had cut them down before they could cry for help. Doing my best not to think about it, I tentatively step forward and through the portal: it felt like I had been plunged into a bucket of ice water. When the sensation faded, I am on the roof of the citadel, at the Frozen Throne. Far in the distance, the flaming, frozen red eyes of the new Lich King – Bolvar Fordragon – regard me lifelessly. His body had become one with the Throne to escape the pain of the dragonfire – another noble soul lost in the initial attempt on the Lich King. The coldness and the snow was more noticeable up here, scraping against my cheeks and whipping my hair around. I shudder, and then my gaze drops down to the one thing I did not want to see.

He was facing away from me, one hand outstretched and reaching toward something he would never receive, his long, white hair fluttering lifelessly in the wind. His dark cape, made of the skin of his enemies, covered him like a blanket, his thick plate boots the only piece of his lower body that was visible at my point of view. His armor was pitch black, and covered in elaborate skulls.

I was shaking, shuddering with the cold and the effort it took to not break down, but I forced myself to move forward and around the…the body.

 _I don't want to see this_.

I look down at the face of the Lich King.

It is cold, angular, and deathly blue – his snowy eyebrows are relaxed in death, as are his icy blue lips. His eyes are closed, his cheek pressed against his arm. He looks cruel, nothing like he used to. The shattered remains of Frostmourne litter the area around him, like some bright blue parasitic insect.

I mutter a quick spell, waving my hand, loathing the sight of the blade. The blade that had started this corruption, and the one that had ended it. It was evil. The pieces levitated upward, and shrink down to the size of ants, encased in a purple orb of magical energy.

And then the pain hits me, forcing me to my knees with the force of a freight train. He is all I can see: his cold, dead eyes, the beautiful soul that had finally escaped from its terrible prison.

I didn't even recognize the strange sounds coming from my throat, the awful, grating cries of anguish. My mind was bombarding me with memory after memory of the old Arthas, the Light of Dawn and the savior of Lordaeron. The Arthas that had loved his people to the point that he went mad trying to get revenge. I draw my knees up to my chin, and lower my head, letting my tears fall freely. My poor, beautiful boy. He was gone, dead, and he wasn't coming back. I would never again see his kind, sweet smile, or the flash of intuition behind his enchanting eyes as he sensed a moment of my distress, or the kind, soft way he had spoken to me and to everyone around him. I would never be able to apologize, or explain, the reasons _why_ I had turned my back on him.

"Oh, Arthas," I moan, wrapping my arms around myself and really sobbing. The tears made my throat thick and sore, and I felt them starting to freeze on my face. This reminded me of my father all over again, though somehow, this was worse. My father died as he had lived, a good man. I reach up and pull at my hair, trying to lessen the pain inside by increasing the pain on the outside, but it doesn't help.

And then, time seems to stop as I hear a weak, gravelly whisper.

"Jaina?"

"Jaina," the Prince repeats, smiling shyly at me. He opens up his hand, where a wilted purple flower rested. I look down at it skeptically, raising an eyebrow.

"You know this flower is, um, dead, right?" I tell him, putting a hand on my hip. "Girls usually like _living_ flowers."

He is nearly bouncing in place, grinning from ear to ear, still cupping the dead flower. He rolls his eyes at me, though it doesn't dampen his mood; it's infectious. "Yes, yes, I know! Wait," he says, stopping and staring at me, wide-eyed. "You're a _girl_?"

I make an indignant huff at the back of my throat, slapping at his shoulder, but he dodges it, his wide smile returning. " _Look_ Jaina…watch. Watch!" He stares intently at the flower for a moment, his young, boyish face squished with concentration, and before my eyes the flower is encompassed with a golden glow. It's like watching a fast-forward of the flower living its life, its petals expanding and revealing its middle. The deep purple color returns to the gray petals, and the glow illuminates Arthas's face, making his eyes sparkle.

"I'm a paladin!" He exclaims proudly, and I stare at him for a moment before my answering smile appears, big and happy. "A paladin, like my Dad! Can you believe it? Now you're not the only one with a little bit of magic. Think of what I can _do_ with this, Jaina! I can cure the sick, heal the elderly, and fight off the bad guys."

"That's wonderful, Arthas!" I squeal delightedly, throwing my arms around him. He returns the embrace after a beat, seemingly surprised by it.

"I, uh…yeah. Well, thank you," he mutters, pleased. His arms are tight around me, and surprisingly, I feel safe, comforted.

I scramble to my feet, feeling like I am moving through mud, and quickly whip my staff in front of me, creating some sort of wall between the Lich King and I. My tears stop, and my fingers glow as I wait for him to strike. But, he does not move. His eyes are still closed, and for a moment, I am convinced I had imagined it.

But then, they open fractionally, and slowly lift to my face. They are a pale, washed out blue, but they are not the glowing, fiery Scourge eyes I had grown to know during our brief encounters in battle. He does not seem to have the strength to move anything else, but his slit eyes are not hostile.

I hold my stiff, defensive pose for a minute more while he watches me warily, before my staff slips from my numb fingers and my barrier fades away into nothing. I drop down to my knees, my sobs renewed, though if they're with relief or hysteria, I am unsure.

"No…Jaina, don't," the Lich King whispers, his words warbled through his frozen mouth.

I cry harder, unable to move, and utterly destroyed by the words. How is he alive?

Slowly, painfully, he struggles to prop himself weakly up onto one elbow, though he quickly slumps back down, convulsing with pain. It's no wonder; his black, scourged armor was riddle with holes, and stained with blood. Several of Ysabeau's companions lay scattered around him, their bodies slowly freezing.

"No…don't….move, don't move," I gasp, trying to stifle my tidal wave of relief and pain. "Don't…don't…"

"Jaina," he whispers again, and I fling myself at him, forgetting his pain, forgetting the bodies, forgetting everything he had done for a brief moment. He flinches slightly at the contact, but I physically feel the effort he exerts to bring his less ruined arm up to crush me against him; I feel fragile in his arms, and the close contact makes me cry harder. He grunts, and props himself up, pulling me fully against him, his other arm coming up to join the first in holding me close. He buries his face into my hair, gently stroking the back of mine in an attempt to quiet me.

"Jaina, don't cry," he whispers hoarsely. "Please, don't cry."

"Arthas," I whimper out at last, clinging to him – for this wasn't the Lich King. This was Arthas Menethil. "But…how? You were…you were d-dead…"

"I heard you," he says in a small voice, sounding lost. I can't look up at him. "I heard you call out for me. How?"

"I don't know," I whisper, my tears finally quieting in the presence of the dawning bubble of relief that was expanding inside of my chest. "I did call out for you, just now."

He stiffens suddenly, and he releases his grip on me to reach up to weakly feel around his chest, his breathing quickening. "Oh, blast…Jaina, could you sit up for a second? I can't see…I don't see…I had it."

Slowly, a watery smile begins to spread across my tearstained face, and I withdraw my locket from the folds of my robes, placing it in his outstretched hand. His fingers close around it, and he lets out a small sigh of relief. "Is this what you were looking for?"

"Yes," Arthas murmurs, and he rests his cheek against my hair, his other arm refastening around me to hold me tightly against his chest. "This…this locket, it was the only thing that kept me from – " He dissolves into a fit of coughing, weakly turning his head away, and I bring myself to raise my head to look at him. His skin is still deathly blue, his hair bright white, standing out starkly in contrast with the blood that drips from his lips from the coughing. His eyebrows are drawn down into a deep V above his eyes, which were closed with the force of his coughs. His face was still too cold, too angular, but it lost some of its hostility. I reach up and gently touch his cheek, my eyes round. His coughing subsides, and he leans into my hand, his pale eyes opening slowly to gaze into mine. They are filled with some unnamed emotion, but it is intense, and it is powerful.

"I knew that you were still in there," I whisper to him wonderingly, stroking his cheekbone gently. "I thought I…I thought I was prepared for you to die. For them to kill you. But, when the news was actually brought to me, it felt as if someone had just torn my heart straight from my chest."

His eyes soften, and he reaches up to place his hand over mine. "Every time I was on the verge of going insane, you were always there to bring me back. Sometimes, I saw purple flowers, and they kept me…human. If you could call me human. Other times, I would touch the locket and remember when you gave it to me," he croaks, then winces. I try to stand to give him some room, but his arm tightens around me.

"No…I've been without this…I can handle the pain. For a little while longer, at least." He glances skyward, his expression darkening, before his eyes return to me.

"I've missed you so much," I tell him throatily, feeling the tears building back up.

He quickly smooths the hair back from my face. "No more crying now," he murmurs to me, his voice soft. "'I missed you too' does not accurately describe the intense longing I've had for your company for years."

I feel my grin stretch across my face, my grin of pure, undulated relief, and it mirrors his own. "But, come. I don't know when they'll be back to pick up your body. We have to get you out of here." I pull away from him, standing up.

He gets to his feet, his face twisting in pain, and stumbles. I put my hand around his waist to steady him, and he drapes his large arm around my shoulders. "Where will you take me? And how will you explain that my body has magically disappeared?"

I eye him closely for a moment, before splaying my fingers towards one of Ysabeau's fallen companions. Their countenance shimmers and changes, taking on the exact replica of Arthas. "What body?"

He grins down at me. "Alright, alright. Show-off."

I grin back, and then direct a wave of purple energy towards his feet. "We're going to Dalaran. No one will disturb us in my quarters. I can attend to your wounds there."

He nods weakly, trusting me entirely. "Yes, ma'am."

I start to move, propelling us upward on my cloud of glimmering magicka, and he turns me to face him. I blink up at him, the snowflakes catching in my eyelashes.

"One more thing," he whispers, and leans down towards me. My heart kicks into rhythm, my pulse racing, as he stops a fractional distance from my parted lips. His eyes search mine, questioningly, and I close the distance between us. One of his hand creeps up to the back of my head, securing my face to his, while my hands reach up to caress his cheeks. His lips are icy and cold, but familiar, and move against mine with a strength and power that took my breath away. It hits me then – _Arthas is alive. And, he's Arthas._ A single tear of relief rolls down my cheek, though I am too dehydrated and lightheaded to pull much more of a waterstorm than that. His kiss is intense, fervent, and almost reverent. As if he was worshipping me. I sensed his relief, his devastation, his acute pain, and the sweet taste of our reunion. A new path stretches out before me, a path that had whithered and died when I lost Arthas. A glowing path of hope that cut away through all the black places of pain that had become my existence.

"I love you," he breathes against my lips, pulling back to fix his intense, dream-like eyes on mine. A thrill of joy goes through me at his words, and my face lights up. "I never stopped loving you."

"I never stopped loving you, either," I reply, my bones melting. He pulls me tightly against him in a hug, and lets out a deep sigh of relief.

"To Dalaran, then. I'll fix you up, and we can figure out what to do from there."

"I'll follow you anywhere, Jaina. My life is in your hands now," he murmurs teasingly, at ease.

My cloud raised us high above the Citadel, and together we watched the snowy, barren landscape recede into a blurred jumble of trees as we zoomed towards my home city, Dalaran. I was slightly nervous about bringing him into the home of the Kirin Tor – the sector of powerful magus that I led – but there was nowhere else to do it. Arthas was a steady, warm presence at my side, and his expression was one of great relief as we left the place that had ruined his life.

"Anywhere it is then," I say, grinning.

And I take him home.


End file.
